


Whispers and Moans

by moemachina



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Demonic Manifestations, F/M, Face Slapping, Fleeting Reference to Pregnancy, Implied Child Death, Infertility, Infidelity, Monster sex, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moemachina/pseuds/moemachina
Summary: Dycedarg never drank himself into a stupor. Dycedarg was too watchful and too guarded for intoxicated helplessness. But even self-possessed Dycedarg was drunk tonight -- his hair disordered, his face flushed -- and he raised an eyebrow at Ruvelia as she approached him.The second eyebrow lifted when Ruvelia climbed into his lap and began kissing the side of his sweaty neck.
Relationships: Louveria Atkascha | Queen Ruvelia/Dycedarg Beoulve
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	Whispers and Moans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorpseBrigadier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/gifts).



> _If he could transcend time and reality, Dycedarg Beoulve would probably pop out of your 1998 CRT monitor to fuck your actual sister right now in front of you._  
>  -CorpseBrigadier, "[Politics, Poisoning, and Parental Neuroses: A Dycedarg/Ruvelia Shipping Manifesto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790523)" (2020)

She had lost track of the days. Time had little meaning in this prison.

A day ago -- or maybe a week ago -- they told her that her brother had been slain, that he was no longer rallying troops to liberate her, that she had lost her last loyal faction.

A week ago -- or perhaps a day ago -- the Pretender King had come to see her.

He had stood in her solar and addressed various pleasantries to her. She had sat in silence, her pale hands folded in her lap, her gaze directed immovably at the rug under his travel-stained boots. She would not recognize him. She would not speak to him.

It was, admittedly, a frail defense against his usurpation. Perhaps, when some later champion took up the cause of her son and his claim to the throne, the lawyers and the cardinals would be able to point to her steadfast denial of the Pretender as one more reason that the Pretender had never actually been the king.

The Pretender knew why she was silent, and her silence amused him. So long as he was amused, he permitted her to have her own attendants, to wander the fortress without a guard, to have her son close by.

He was not threatened by her silence. For now.

Ruvelia sat there, unmoving, until he grew bored and left her.

* * *

Ruvelia was seventeen years old. She was staying at her brother’s estate in Eagrose for the season. Her brother was hosting a hunting party, but he had forbidden her from joining, even though Ruvelia dearly loved to hunt.

As a result, Ruvelia had spent the entire day seething and planning her revenge.

She waited until it was late and the men had been at their cups for hours. Their hunt that day had been unsuccessful, but that did not stop Larg from his feasts and his revels. Even from her bed -- where she wore a long white nightgown and her hair primly braided in a plait -- she could hear Larg and his companions singing lewd songs for hours.

Eventually the singing tapered into silence, and Ruvelia slipped from her bed.

In the Great Hall, men lay in drunken heaps among the straw and the sleeping dogs. Ruvelia picked her way past them delicately.

At the great table that stood in the center of the hall, nearly every man was passed out. Larg himself had his head down against the table and was snoring loudly.

The single exception was Dycedarg Beoulve, as Ruvelia had known it must be. Dycedarg never drank himself into a stupor. Dycedarg was too watchful and too guarded for intoxicated helplessness. But even self-possessed Dycedarg was drunk tonight -- his hair disordered, his face flushed -- and he raised an eyebrow at Ruvelia as she approached him.

The second eyebrow lifted when Ruvelia climbed into his lap and began kissing the side of his sweaty neck.

For a minute, he was very still, and Ruvelia had the sudden thought that he was preparing to shove her away.

But then Larg, a mere few feet away, belched loudly in his sleep and shifted restlessly.

Ruvelia and Dycedarg both stared at him -- but Larg did not wake up.

Still staring at Larg intently, Dycedarg slowly lifted a hand and cupped Ruvelia’s breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

Larg continued to sleep, even as Dycedarg began to gently squeeze Ruvelia’s breast. Larg continued to sleep, even as Dycedarg pulled down the front of Ruvelia’s nightgown, baring her breasts to the air. Larg continued to sleep, even as Dycedarg lowered his face to Ruvelia’s chest and began to suck Ruvelia’s right nipple.

Larg began snoring again.

With both legs slung over Dycedarg’s lap, Ruvelia began to rock her hips insistently back and forth, until finally he acquiesced to her unspoken demand and slid the hem of her nightgown up to her hips -- the air in the Great Hall felt deliciously cool against her thighs -- and put his thick, blunt fingers between her legs.

“I want more than your fingers,” she whispered in his ear.

“That’s too bad,” he whispered back as he slid a finger inside her. “I must draw the line at the treasonous defilement of your maidenhead.”

And then he slid a second finger within her, and Ruvelia was bouncing up and down on his lap, rubbing her spit-slicked breasts against the front of his clothes, getting closer and closer to her peak -- and when her orgasm came, as she sat not five feet from her unconscious brother, she convulsed silently on top of Dycedarg for a small eternity.

After she went still, Dycedarg slid her nightgown down her legs. Then, without a word, he gave her a rough push, so that she tumbled out of his lap and to the floor.

Grimly, she stood up.

“What about that?” she asked, indicating the visible bulge in the crotch of Dycedarg’s trousers.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Dycedarg said, a little hoarsely. “I will take care of it. Goodnight, milady.”

Larg, blissfully oblivious, continued to snore.

Ruvelia regarded Dycedarg for several moments. "Goodnight," she finally said.

And then she turned and slowly made her way back to her bedroom, where she fell asleep with a feeling of great contentment and satisfaction.

* * *

Ruvelia was twenty, which made her old to be a bride. The king’s courtiers never lost an opportunity to make winking insinuations about her elderly condition, her spider-webbed womb, her gnarled ovaries.

Ruvelia was twenty, and it was her wedding day, and her brother had disgraced himself at the banquet, and the king had accidentally wet himself at the ceremony, and the courtiers had giggled and smirked and pinched her when they dressed her in the morning and pinched her again when they undressed her that night.

The terrifying dowager-queen had glared at her all day. And every time Ruvelia sought to evade her baleful gaze and escape to a new room, for some reason she found that Dycedarg was already there, standing vaguely in the background, watching her with an ironic expression. 

Ruvelia was twenty, and it was her wedding night, and nothing she did could make the king’s manhood stand at attention. She tried stroking it. She tried sucking it. She tried embracing the king with her thighs and rubbing her own slick, aching womanhood against it -- but it remained limp and dangling.

And then, when she had nearly given up all hope, the king suddenly stiffened and seized the curve of her hip and pumped himself once, twice against her leg -- and Ruvelia felt a warm liquid trickle down the outside of her thigh.

Then the king gave a huff of satisfaction and rolled to his edge of the bed and soon fell into a deep sleep.

Ruvelia lay there, staring at the canopy hanging over the bed, until the liquid on her leg grew cool and sticky.

She was thinking about the courtiers and their sneering faces.

She was thinking about her need to have a baby. She was thinking about the king’s need to have an heir.

The king remained asleep even as she got out of bed and pulled on a pale robe and left the royal bedroom.

It was late, but even so, she passed various attendants and servants: the castle never truly slept. As she walked past, they glanced at her and then immediately averted her eyes. Since that morning, she had become a figure of power. They would not see her, and they would not remember her.

When she reached Dycedarg’s room, she did not bother to knock before she opened his door.

He was lying on his bed with his shirt-sleeves rolled up. He was reading a book next to a candle flickering on his nightstand. He looked up at her curiously as she came into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Your Majesty,” he drawled, “to what--” and then Ruvelia leaned over him and slapped him hard across the mouth, and as he flinched back and dropped his book, she was climbing over him to straddle him and unbuckle his belt and tug down his trousers.

“You’re going to do this for me,” she told him.

“Am I?” he asked, simultaneously quizzically and breathlessly, because Ruvelia had her hand around his cock. “What’s in it for me?”

Ruvelia ran her hand along his length, feeling him stiffen under her touch. “Influence,” she told him. “Power.”

“Mmm,” Dycedarg said as she pressed down against him and guided him to her slippery entrance. “What else.”

“Fatherhood,” Ruvelia said as she sheathed him inside her. “Ah, fuck. Oh, God.”

“Please, please, you can’t be loud,” he said, his hands gripping her hips as she began to ride him. “Ohhhh, you have to be quiet, Ruvelia, _please_.”

“No,” Ruvelia moaned. “No one will hear us. No one will dare hear us. I can scream as loud as I want.”

And indeed, that night she was loud, so loud that Prince Larg -- staying in a nearby room -- had to pile three pillows over his head to drown out her cries.

Nine months later, she had a baby, a boy with a pale cowlick of hair and a distinctive nose -- but this particular triumph was to be short-lived.

* * *

Ruvelia was twenty-eight, a widow, a prisoner.

She remained a mother. Her first two babies had died, but the third yet lived, improbably healthy and rosy-cheeked, his fat little stomach pressed against the side of his crib every morning as he gripped the edge and pulled himself up. He staggered. He tottered. His pale cowlick fluttered under the power of his determination to walk.

The Pretender King and his minions grew less amused by his health and her silence with each passing day.

Ruvelia had never been particularly religious, but she began to pray.

One night, her prayers were answered. One night, he came to her.

Possibly it was a dream. Her room was dark, and there was a figure standing in the shadows.

Ruvelia knew, instinctively, that it was Dycedarg -- and, just as instinctively, that it was not Dycedarg.

They had told her that Dycedarg was dead. And this figure -- who became clearer and stranger the longer she regarded him -- was not Dycedarg.

And yet, somehow. “Dycedarg,” she whispered.

The figure approached. Its horns were long and red. When it spoke, its voice was incomprehensible, yet its question was plain.

“Yes,” Ruvelia said.

A second question was asked.

Ruvelia agreed.

Not that she had a choice.

Not that it was a difficult decision.

The horned figure wore no clothing, and so nothing hid the prodigious organ that hung between his legs. Ruvelia stroked it until it grew stiff and red, and then she took it in her mouth. The horned figure made no noise, no cry, no moan. He had no reaction as Ruvelia kissed the crown of his cock and ran her tongue around it.

But after a certain amount of time had elapsed, the horned figure pulled her up and then pushed her back, so that she lay sprawled across her bed.

Looming over her, he parted her legs, pushing both knees so far apart that Ruvelia felt her hips creak.

He pushed himself between her legs and, without warning or preparation, rammed his enormous appendage inside her.

Ruvelia made a keening noise, a sound which only deepened in pitch as the horned figure pushed himself further in. It hurt so much, and Ruvelia felt _stretched_ in a way she had never experienced, and she did not want him to stop.

The horned figure said something, although they were not human words, and Ruvelia said, again, “Yes.”

Slowly, agonizingly, the horned figure withdrew himself from Ruvelia, and then, with a unearthly growl, he slammed back into her. Ruvelia felt the impact throughout her hips, throughout her pelvis. He did it again. Faster.

The bed creaked as the horned figure pounded into her. The floor shook. The windows trembled.

“Yes,” Ruvelia kept gasping, even though the horned figure had asked her no further questions. “Yes.”

After a while, she lost consciousness completely.

* * *

When Ruvelia woke up, the gray light of dawn was outside her window.

Her room was empty.

Her body was sore.

She thought: _A kind of grace has been granted._

When she entered her son’s nursery room, he was already awake, standing in his crib and very pleased to see her.

She dressed him in his warmest clothing, and then, slinging him up on her hip, she took him and left the castle.

No one stopped them. No one even saw them. For whatever reason, every guard and servant she passed was distracted for a moment, and when they looked back up, she had already turned a corner.

Perhaps, too, it helped that no one had ever actually imagined that Ruvelia might escape. She was, after all, a silent, pliant little queen, forever sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She was no one to worry about. She was no one to watch closely.

Outside the castle, the air was chill, and she hugged her son closer. He looked around with interest, but he did not fuss and he did not demand to be put down.

She walked for a while through a brown landscape, and then they were standing at the banks of a river.

There was a small rowboat tied up on the bank. It held a basket of apples and a fishing pole.

The boat's owner was, presumably, somewhere nearby, so Ruvelia moved quickly and quietly. She settled her son in the bottom of the boat and then, after untying the boat, she stepped in herself. Using a paddle, she pushed away from the bank.

She had never rowed with paddles before, so there was a brief moment in which she kept spinning their boat in a circle, but after a while, she got the hang of it, and then they were moving smoothly down the river.

Her son was clapping his hands happily, and Ruvelia glanced down at him. “One day, you’ll be back here, but you’ll come as a king, and you’ll come as your parents’ son.”

He continued to clap happily, delighted by the sound of his own hands.

* * *

Ruvelia was twenty-five, and it was -- although she did not know it at the time -- maybe the last time that she would be completely and entirely happy.

She and Dycedarg had come out to one of Larg’s hunting lodges. Larg was around, somewhere, as well, although he was making himself habitually scarce and maintaining a diplomatic blindness about the unlocked door that joined Ruvelia’s bedroom to Dycedarg’s bedroom. Knowing everything, Larg sought to know nothing.

It was the late afternoon, and they were lying together in Dycedarg’s bed. Dycedarg was stroking her hair and talking to her.

He was not often tender to her. Ruvelia did not expect tenderness from him; they both understood the parameters of their arrangement. And yet, for some reason, something had come over him in this particular moment, and he wanted to talk to her about his family, about his father, about the future.

Ruvelia let him talk. She let his words sweep over her. She did not pay very close attention to them.

She knew that the only thing that mattered to Dycedarg was his family and his House -- and yet, for a man obsessed with the Beoulve lineage, he seemed curiously unhurried when it came to selecting a wife and producing legitimate heirs to ensure the future of the Beoulves.

“Why?” she sleepily asked him.

It was a question without any context, but Dycedarg immediately understood what she was asking. “There is more than one way to ensure stability and security for a House. There’s something to be said for calculated destruction, for careful demolition, for the scouring away of the weak and the useless.” He brushed away a tendril of hair from her face.

“Huh,” Ruvelia said, and then her heavy lids finally lowered all the way, and she slept.

Dycedarg, knowing that she was too far gone to notice, leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “And besides,” he said to her, “one day my House will cover the whole of Ivalice. And, from there, the whole of the world.”


End file.
